


All Shook Up

by Jiksa



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Drunk Decision Making, Elvis Impersonation, Las Vegas Wedding, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-17 17:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10598931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiksa/pseuds/Jiksa
Summary: Pete is a divorced Elvis impersonator at a Las Vegas wedding chapel, who’s stopped believing in happy endings. Patrick hasn’t, but then again, he’s there to marry Bob.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadySmutterella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySmutterella/gifts).



> This is _all_ [Immoral_Crow/](http://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow)[LadySmutterella’s](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysmutterella) fault - she provided inspiration, beta reading and much terrible encouragement. For the "Free Space" square of my bandom bingo card. Apologies for the terrible Elvis references.

Pete hates every literal fucking second of marrying people for a living. It’s not just the Elvis costumes that stick to his thighs whenever the air con breaks down, or the gravity-defying quiff he has to twist his hair into every morning, or even the never-ending replays of Elvis’s _Greatest Hits_ on the shitty sound system, it’s— well, it’s _love_ , or at least whatever passes for love in Las Vegas on any given night between midnight and 6am.

Every time a rosy-cheeked, starry-eyed, blissfully happy couple staggers into the wedding chapel to throw their lives away on each other, Pete can’t help but think, _This is the worst idea either of you have ever fucking had, are you kidding me? Before you know it, you’ll realize she’s an evil cunt and she’ll realize you’re a sad loser and she’ll fuck your best friend behind your back and you’ll find out from the neighbour and then she’ll pack the car and take the baby with her and you’ll be more alone than you’ve ever been before._

Pete’s been in this business long enough to know that while these things might start all _Love Me Tender_ , they’ll inevitably end in _Heartbreak Hotel_ for most of the people he marries. It’s just a matter of time. Young lust, cheap drinks and spontaneous decision-making in the desert heat is not what dreams are made of.

It doesn’t matter what his personal views on the subject are though, he needs the paycheck. He doesn’t like to think too closely about how he ended up marrying drunk idiots in the seedy end of Las Vegas, but it involved a brutally messy divorce, a two-month tequila bender, getting fired from three consecutive jobs, and Gabe sending him the link to a cheap marriage officiant license test on the internet as a joke.

Now Pete knows way too much about how white PVC bell bottoms chafe in the desert heat, but at least he’s employed and sober and gets shared custody of Bronx. His shit’s somewhat together. Kind of.

It’s been an unusually slow night at the Big Hunk O’ Love Wedding Chapel. Elvis is crooning, _I’m a little mixed up but I’m feeling fine_ , on the stereo overhead as Pete sweeps sequins and glitter into a dust pan. The last couple he married seem to have shed half their wedding day sparkles on their post-marital, handsy, drunken stumble out the door. Pete wouldn’t be surprised if they’re fucking in a back alley somewhere nearby, her glittery mini dress pushed up around her hips and his sequined sombrero hanging from his neck.

The door bursts open just as Pete’s dumping the last of the glitter and desert dust into a trash can. Pete turns his head to greet whoever’s walked in… and can suddenly, and rather inconveniently, understand what Elvis means when he sings, _Mm mm oh, oh, yeah, yeah… I’m all shook up_.

The kid’s bleary-eyed and rosy-cheeked and wearing a partially-buttoned Hawaiian shirt with pit stains. There’s a half-empty bottle of bubbly dangling from his wrist and a fedora perched precariously on his blonde head. He looks _hammered_ , his eyes bloodshot like he’s been crying. Not that Pete can blame him; he knows first-hand how this town can drive anyone to drink.

The kid stops halfway up the aisle, rubbing at his eyes underneath his black-framed glasses. “Are you still open?”

“We don’t close,” Pete says awkwardly, forcing a smile that he hopes passes for _winning_ and _welcoming_ and not just, well, _all fucking shook up_. Pete’s not cut out for this shit, but Brendon went home sick earlier so he’s on his own. He makes a feeble attempt to remember Brendon’s lines, something about _hello, welcome to wherever the fuck we are_ and _wow, don’t you make a beautiful couple_ and _let me get you folks a pamphlet and price guide_ and—

“We need to get married _right now_.”

It’s only because Pete’s struck speechless that he doesn’t emphatically blurt, _Yes, we fucking do_. “Um,” he says instead, when it’s clear the guy’s expecting an answer. In the guy’s defense, it’s not the worst proposal Pete’s ever heard. “I don’t get off work for another hour.”

“What?” The guy looks momentarily confused. It twists something in Pete’s stomach. Fuck, he’s so inconveniently _pretty_. “Yeah, that’s why we’re here. You’re Elvis and I need to marry this asshole.”

The guy gestures vaguely behind himself and Pete catches sight of some other dude slouched against the back wall and dry heaving into a flower pot. He hadn’t seen him come in, momentarily blinded by this Hawaiian shirt clad angel appearing in his chapel. From the looks of it, the guy behind him is wearing a T-shirt bearing the words, _COOL STORY BABE, NOW GO MAKE ME A FUCKING SANDWICH._ They sell it at one of the little touristy shops down the street that Pete walks past on his way to work. Charming.

“ _Oh_ ,” Pete mutters, belatedly getting with the program. He shakes himself and tries to get back into character. “Of course. Welcome to the Big Hunk O’ Love Wedding Chapel, where we make your, uh, you know, uh, dreams come true.”

Hawaiian Shirt looks distinctly unimpressed. “Oh dear sweet baby Jesus,” he says, before taking a long, drawn-out sip of champagne. His aim’s a bit off, a splash of it sliding down his throat and over his sunburnt chest. Pete very professionally doesn’t think about licking it off. “Just show me where to fucking sign.”

“Uh,” Pete says, suave as a motherfucker. “We have twenty-five different Elvis-style ceremonies to choose from for your Special Day™. Let me get you a pamphlet.”

“I don’t want a fucking pamphlet,” Hawaiian Shirt says shortly. “Just marry us right now, before I punch his lights out. Can I smoke in here?”

The guy back there graduates from mere dry heaving to actual vomiting, hopefully into the flower pot and not onto the floor, and yet Pete can’t quite tear his attention away from this Hawaiian shirt-wearing revelation standing halfway up the aisle. The disco ball above his head makes his reddened skin glow all over. He’s so completely, stupidly beautiful. “My boss would rather you didn’t.”

The guy sighs. “Just, like a stock standard Elvis impersonator wedding. Nothing fancy. I’ve got $400 to my name if you take Visa.”

Pete glances over the guy’s shoulder. Yep, that’s definitely all over the floor. Spencer can clean it up when he comes on. The Morning Elvis shift is always slow, anyway. “Uh, are you sure you want to marry this guy?”

“Yes,” Hawaiian Shirt snaps rather unkindly, all things considered. “Love of my fucking life, etcetera.”

“Right, then.” Pete opens a pamphlet to point out the themed wedding packages under $400. “Your options are young Elvis in his Gold Lamé jacket, Classic White Jumpsuit Elvis, or our Sexy Black Leather Elvis From The Comeback Era.”

The guy’s eyes narrow. “You’re going to put on sexy black leather?”

“Yes,” Pete says weakly. “If that’s the aesthetic you’d like for your Special Day™.”

“Why are you saying it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like, all capital S, capital D, trademark logo.”

Pete clears his throat, thrusting the pamphlet towards him. “The Gold Lamé option includes a commemorative glow in the dark framed digitized slideshow.”

Hawaiian Shirt doesn’t even look at it. He glares briefly at his fiance puking his guts out, rolling his eyes. “Please tell me you’ve got more alcohol back there.”

“The Classic White Jumpsuit Elvis option includes a complimentary bottle of peach schnapps,” Pete tries.

“What the fuck? Just, either. Doesn’t fucking matter.”

Pete leans in a little, breaking character. “I’m sorry, this is none of my business, but. Are you sure you want to do this?”

The guy’s lips thin, but even so, they’re still plump and pink and tempting. “If you ask me that one more time, we’re gonna have a problem.”

Pete’s sure the guy means it to sound vaguely threatening, but it comes out more musical theatre than brass knuckle brawling. His eyes aren’t just bloodshot from drinking, Pete realizes. He’s definitely been crying.

“Sure,” Pete says, trying to regain some degree of professionalism. He might make a living wearing PVC bell bottoms and sunglasses indoors, but he takes his job seriously. Well, he takes his _paycheck_ seriously. “I’ll just get you some paperwork, then.”

The guy brightens somewhat. Kind of. “Thanks.”

Pete heads to the office to grab a _Burning Love Holy Baloney Matrimony Kit_ , complete with a disposable camera, a commemorative burnt CD with karaoke versions of Elvis songs and a few 2-for-1 happy hour vouchers for nearby bars and discount strip clubs. He shoots Gerard a text while he gets his shit together. Gerard works the evening Elvis shift and should by all accounts be asleep, but that fucker’s kind of a vampire. _soooo accidentally fell in love with a client._

The reply comes almost instantaneously. _Again?_

Pete sighs. The tassels on his jacket rattle as he types. _this one’s different, he’s like an angry gremlin in a hawaiian shirt and he’s SO pretty_.

_Just get the thing done, go home, sleep it off. You won’t remember him in the morning._

Pete sneaks a glance through the blinds of his office to see the guy sitting in a pew and staring ominously at the ceiling, like he’s actually taking this place seriously as a religious establishment. His betrothed’s nowhere to be seen, but it’s not the first time Pete’s had to wake up wayward grooms who’ve accidentally fallen asleep in a pool of their own vomit behind some pews. _what if he’s the love of my life though_.

_Spoiler alert: he’s not. You just haven’t gotten laid for a while and you’re getting sad and desperate._

Gerard’s not wrong. Pete’s marriage ended in actual, literal flames about two years ago, taking part of his apartment down with it. There are still visible scorch marks on the wall from where Ashlee doused his guitars in tequila and struck a match. He’s had people in his bed since, but none of them have really mattered all that much. Mikey spends the night every now and then, but things have been different since he met Ray. He’s all starry-eyed and distracted; Pete doesn’t really think he’s going to be getting benefits from their friendship for much longer. 

It’s quite possible that he’s started getting lonely and pathetic in his old age. 

At least the kid on the other side of the blinds has someone who wants to put a ring on his finger and take him home at the end of the night. That’s gotta count for something, right? Pete throws in a voucher for a free car wash, a commemorative keychain and one of the picture frames that come with the more lavish wedding packages that are outside of the kid’s budget. Someone out there deserves to be happy, after all. 

Until the inevitable, brutal and costly divorce, at least.

A glance at the clock tells Pete he’s got forty-five minutes to smash out this wedding before Spencer clocks in and he can finally crawl into his big, stupid, lonely bed. He takes a steadying breath and tries to summon enough energy to give this guy a decent Special Day™.

“Alright, let’s sign some paperwork,” Pete says when he returns, with all the bluster and enthusiasm of someone who’s about to watch someone sign some paperwork at five in the morning. He takes a seat beside him. “If I could see some ID, please.”

The guy — Patrick Martin Stumph — unearths two Illinois driver’s licenses from his tattered wallet and hands them over. To Pete’s surprise, he’s almost thirty. Somehow that still feels way too young to be hitching his wagon to someone he doesn’t particularly seem to like very much.

Pete remembers standing in a chapel on his own wedding day, cheap rental suit on and a lukewarm beer in his hand, knowing in his bones that he wouldn’t have married this girl if her belly hadn’t been swelling with their unborn son. Gabe must’ve known it wouldn’t work in the end, but he’d fulfilled his best man duties and gotten Pete to the altar without incident.

Pete takes down Patrick’s details, and then his fiance’s onto the marriage license application. Brendon usually does these; Pete’s not necessarily sure what he’s doing. “Where’re you from in Illinois?”

“Evanston,” Patrick says. “It’s just North of—”

“No shit.” Pete sits back, surprised. “Wilmette, born and raised.”

Patrick smiles a little, the skin around his eyes crinkling with it. It does things to Pete’s stomach that it absolutely shouldn’t. “Shithole, huh?”

“No joke.” Pete can’t help but smile back at him. He knows they’re running out of time and that they should just get this over with before Spencer gets here, but... “Um. What brings you to Vegas?”

“My asshole boyfriend slept with my cousin,” Patrick says, glancing over his shoulder to where his paramour is most likely passed out in a pool of his own vomit. “This was his way of apologizing, I guess.”

“What the...”

Patrick looks down at his hands. They’re twisting in his lap. “It’s not as fucked up as it sounds. I’ve been waiting for him to want to marry me for _years_ , you know?”

Pete’s pretty sure it _is_ as fucked up as it sounds, but it’s not really his place to argue. “I’m sorry, that really sucks.”

“It’s fine.”

It probably isn’t, but again, it isn’t really Pete’s place to weigh in. Instead, he says, “Have you decided on the sort of ceremony you’d like?”

Patrick sighs, heavy and heartbreaking. “I don’t care, to be honest. I just want to get it over with.”

It goes against absolutely every single one of their policies, but Pete can’t fucking let this kid do this to himself. He’s not just drunk and spontaneous and in love, he’s— _heartbroken_ and about to make a mistake he’s going to regret for a long fucking time. “I’m sorry, this isn’t. I can’t.”

Patrick frowns. “What?”

“I can’t marry you. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean, you can’t marry me? I have $400 on a Visa card. You have an Elvis costume. This is your fucking job.”

“You seem like you’re in a weird place in your life and like maybe you’ve had a few more drinks than you should’ve and you’re really fucking cute and—”

_“Excuse me?!”_

Pete’s face flushes. “Shit,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean for that to sound so condescending.”

“No. Fuck that. Marry me. Marry the fuck out of me right now. I have $400 dollars. I want the commemorative glow in the dark shit. I want Leather Elvis. I want a commemorative plate. Fucking hell. Marry me. Bob!”

Pete winces. “I really can’t.”

“That’s fucking bullshit. Marry me.”

“Look,” Pete says, taking his stupid sunglasses off his face and meeting the kid’s eyes. “Getting a marriage annulled or dissolved is a pain in the ass. You seem like a really nice guy, I’d hate to see you—”

Patrick’s stopped listening, storming down the aisle to most likely find his fiance and fuck off to another Elvis-themed wedding chapel that will take his money. He stops short at the bottom of the aisle. “Bob?” He voice cracks as he makes his way out of the front door. “Bob? Bob! Bob, where the fuck— _Bob!_ ”

Pete follows him out, bypassing the puddle of vomit with practiced ease. Bob’s nowhere to be seen.

Patrick’s hugging himself, his eyes shining wet in the bright neon lights coming from the Strip. Pete bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something, balls his hands into fists to keep from reaching for him.

Patrick wipes his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. “Didn't even make it up the altar before he bailed. Don’t know why I’m even surprised.”

Pete’s going to get fired as fuck if Patrick reports any of this to his employer, but, “Maybe it’s for the best. He seemed like he might be a bit of a dick.”

“Yeah.” Patrick sniffles, wiping at his eyes. “But he was a dick who wanted to marry me.”

“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Pete says, pulling out a decorative handkerchief from his coat pocket and handing it over. “Trust me. I married the wrong person once. You’re worth more than that.”

Patrick blows his nose and looks at Pete for a long, strange time. He forces a smile, small and fragile, that makes Pete’s heart kick in his chest. “You said you get off in an hour?”

Pete swallows. “Less than that now.”

“Okay.” Patrick throws his bottle of champagne into a nearby bush. “I’ll buy you pancakes, if you want.”

Pete tries not to think of things in Elvis songs, but looking at Patrick standing underneath the Big Hunk O’ Love Wedding Chapel neon sign, he can’t help but hear, _I got wishbone in my pocket, I got a rabbit's foot 'round my wrist, you know I'd have all the things these lucky charms could bring, if you'd give me just one sweet kiss._

“Yeah,” Pete says, clearing his throat when his voice catches. “Okay.”

—

It’s sometime later, once Patrick’s snoring softly on Pete’s pillow and his naked body’s pressed flush against Pete’s back, that Pete notices the text messages from Spencer.

_why’s there a drunk asshole passed out in the toilet?_

_so much vomit everywhere i hate you_

_he tried to punch me when i woke him up, had to call the cops_

_lol_

Pete turns in Patrick’s arms to nuzzle his jaw and kiss him awake again. He smells like Pete’s shampoo and tastes like Pete’s toothpaste. The smile in Patrick’s kiss makes Pete’s heart twist and kick and swell in his chest.

The King would argue that _only fools rush in_ , but then again… Pete’s never been able to help himself.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](http://jiksax.tumblr.com/post/159578209299/all-shook-up)
> 
> Title from [“All Shook Up” by Elvis Presley](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3rQEbQJx5Bo).
> 
> [tumblr](http://jiksax.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/jiksax) | [email](mailto:ifckfairies@gmail.com?Subject=Hey%20girl)  
> 


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